


Harry Potter and the Happy Ending

by beetle



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: AU, F/F, F/M, M/M, Multi, Post-Movie(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-24
Updated: 2013-05-24
Packaged: 2017-12-12 19:21:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/815106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beetle/pseuds/beetle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The three best friends the Wizarding World ever saw get a flat together. Hijinks ensue. Written for a slashtheimage prompt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Harry Potter and the Happy Ending

**Author's Note:**

> Notes/Warnings: AU, set Post-War.

“I don’t know,” Harry tells the Muggle realtor, wandering around the unfurnished livingroom. “I just don’t know.”  
  
“What’s not to know? It’s not the Burrow, and that’s enough for me!” Ron exclaims leaning out the livingroom’s single window. “Bott’s Beans, mate, look at the arse on  _that_  one!”  
  
He runs an absent hand over his bristly crew-cut then whistles, calling out: “Break my bloody heart, love—you want flies to go with that rake?!”  
  
“It’s  _fries_  to go with that  _shake_ , Ronald. And that’s a horrible thing to shout at a stranger, no matter how attractive. Honestly.” Hermione tosses messy tresses she also no longer has. But unlike Ron, her hair looks much better in the short, tousled pixie-cut she’d recently got. “And at least  _these_  wood floors don’t have cigarette burns in them, Harry. Certainly an improvement.” But she sounds as if she has her own reservations, too.  
  
Harry frowns. “I know, but—”  
  
Ron leans even more precariously out the window. “I just looked in the Mirror of Erised and saw myself in your pants!” He then turns to the realtor, grinning and bright-eyed. “We’ll take it!”  
  
The realtor smirks. Harry and Hermione share a glance and a sigh.  
  
  


II

  
  
Harry’s been awake since two thirty-seven a.m., when Ron and his . . .  _guest_  . . . had arrived, slamming doors, moaning, and making a ruckus that had escalated once they were in Ron’s bedroom.  
  
(Which is right next to Harry’s.)  
  
He’d finally pulled his pillow over his head and waited for the awful sounds to stop. They hadn’t. Not for the rest of the night— _have to admire Ron’s stamina_ , Harry had supposed a bit enviously—or even as dawn touched the sky.  
  
Now, giving up sleep as a bad job, Harry has straggled into the kitchen for the first of several cups of coffee. As he waits grimly for the coffeemaker to do its caffeinated business, the kitchen door swings open behind him.  
  
Harry glares over his shoulder, expecting to find a sheepish, rumpled Ron. What he finds is a very un-sheepish, very  _naked Viktor Krum_.  
  
“Good morning, Harry Potter.”  
  
Harry gapes. “Er . . . long time, no see, Viktor.” He manages to keep his eyes from wandering south. Viktor sniffs the air.  
  
“Coffee, yes?”  
  
“Er . . . yes.”  
  
Viktor smiles stolidly. “Ron will be needing much caffeine.”  
  
Harry sighs again and decides to abandon the flat entirely. He can get coffee on his way to training.  
  
  


III

  
  
“Honestly, Ronald! Just— _taste it_!” Hermione orders, holding out the ladle to Ron, whose face twists up like he got hit with a lemon-lips jinx.  
  
“’Mione, it’s the worst thing I’ve ever smelled—I’m bloody  _not_  gonna  _taste_  it! Merlin, I wouldn’t feed it to a crup I didn’t like!” He announces, glaring at the crusted over cauldron of . . . _something_  that Hermione is once more determinedly stirring.  
  
It  _does_  smell rather vile. The fact that  _Ron_  won’t touch it-- _Ron_ , who’ll even eat  _Harry_ ’s cooking—is more than enough reason for Harry to steer clear. But knowing whom Hermione’ll turn to next, he begins to sidle out of the kitchen.  
  
“. . . top marks in Potions, yet you’re the worst cook ever!”  
  
“At least  _my_  stew didn’t leave a hole in the bottom of the cauldron three nights in a row. . . !”  
  
Harry’s nearly to the kitchen door when two sets of angry eyes fall on him.  
  
“Harry, will you come taste this?”  
  
Ron shakes his head again. “I wouldn’t, if I were you, mate.”  
  
“Erm . . . oh, look over there!” Harry points, and when Ron and Hermione look, he darts out the door, visions of take-away curry and silence dancing in his head.  
  
  


IV

  
  
  
Harry’s generally easy-going.  
  
Really, he is. With Voldemort finally dead and done, he’s discovered his own brand of Zen, which consists mainly of the motto:  _Whatever it is, it ain’t Voldemort._  
  
But Ron and Hermione’s constant bickering is trampling Harry’s precious Zen.  
  
Especially since the bickering’s not over anything  _important._  It’s the same things that’ve been between them since moving in: Hermione’s bad cooking, Ron’s slovenliness—bollocks like that when what they’re  _really_  arguing about is Ron shagging Viktor Krum.  
  
But neither will simply come out and  _say_  so, so the bickering continues until Harry’s at the end of his rope.  
  
One morning, he even finds a grey hair just above the scar.  
  
Suddenly, utterly incensed, he storms out of the bathroom and pounds on Ron and Hermione’s doors.  
  
“Out here! Now!”  
  
They straggle out of their rooms. All  _four_  of them:  
  
A barely-dressed Lavender Brown hangs off Hermione’s arm, and they both cast opaque glances at Ron, who looks unpleasantly gobsmacked.  
  
And Viktor . . . looks disturbingly interested whole tableau.  
  
Harry throws up his hands and marches back to bed.  
  
After that morning, neither Viktor nor Lavender are seen ‘round the flat again.  
  
Harry plucks the grey hair. His Zen returns.  
  


V

  
  
A month later, Harry knocks on Hermione’s door, simultaneously turning the knob.  
  
“’Mione, I really need to borrow your silver mirror—can’t spell the tarnish off mine, and—“ he falls silent as his brain plays catch-up:  
  
Hermione’s standing—naked—over her bed. And over Ron, who’s  _tied_ , hand-and-foot, to the bed, and also naked but for a pair pink panties (which he’s tenting out formidably).  
  
“Harry!” They both say at the same time, both turning rather alarming shades of crimson. “It’s not what it looks like, mate!”  
  
“That’s right, it’s something else entirely!” Hermione agrees, nodding quickly, brow furrowing as she tries to come up with an explanation. “See, Ron and I—er—“  
  
“Nuh!” Harry holds up one hand to forestall an explanation. “Don’t wanna know. Silver mirror?”  
  
“Um . . . on my dresser.” Hermione points, but Harry’s already grabbing the mirror thence to make his escape. But before he does, he turns to look at the pair again. They’re still blushing, and not meeting Harry’s eyes.  
  
He opens his mouth to say . . . well, nothing really comes to mind. Nothing at all.  
  
So he makes good his exit and completes his project—which he aces.  
  
Hermione never does ask for the mirror back.  
  


VI

  
  
“Harry.”  
  
Squinting up from his report, Harry looks at Hermione and Ron. “What’s up?”  
  
“We’re . . . concerned about you.”  
  
Harry frowns. “Why?”  
  
They share a glance.  
  
“Why’re we concerned about him again, ‘Mione?” Ron leans in to whisper, but it’s still loud enough for Harry—who rolls his eyes—to hear.  
  
“Honestly, Ron!” Hermione elbows Ron, and sighs. “Harry . . . we’ve been living together for the better part of a year, and in that time, well, to be blunt, Ron and I have had several lovers—“  
  
“I’d noticed,” Harry says dryly.  
  
“But you’ve not had even one. In fact, since you and Ginny broke up, there hasn’t been  _anyone_.”  
  
“Just because I don’t drag people home every night—“ Harry begins, crossing his arms somewhat defensively.  
  
“But you don’t drag anyone home on  _any_  night!” Ron interjects, as if he can’t imagine a more horrible thought.  
  
“—doesn’t mean I haven’t had lovers. I just prefer  _discretion._ ” He stands up, grabbing his report and his wand. “So thank you for your concern, but butt out.”  
  
Drawing his dignity around him like an Invisibility Cloak, Harry strides past the pair and out of the kitchen, pretending even to himself he’s not as lonely as he suddenly feels.  
  
  


VII

  
  
It’s a to-do, if not a fancy one, that Harry comes home to.  
  
Ron and Hermione, Neville and Luna, Dean and Seamus, Lavender and . . .  _Pansy Parkinson_  are all crowded ‘round the diningroom table. There’re only two non-transfigured chairs left.  
  
“Harry! Mate!” Ron calls, waving him over to the seat immediately next to him. “Thought we were gonna have to start without you!” Ron’s stomach growls as if to accentuate that claim.  
  
“Er . . . what’s all this?” Harry asks warily, shrugging out of his robe and tossing it at the couch. He makes his way over to Ron and sits, getting a hearty clap on his back for his troubles.  
  
“Just a gathering of mates—you know,” Ron assures him, though Harry most certainly  _doesn’t_ know. If he didn’t know better, in fact, he’d swear it was a couples-only sort of affair, and that he is the conspicuous ninth wheel.  
  
“Look, maybe I should—“ Harry is cut off by the sound of their floo. He looks up and his brow furrows.  
  
“Harry. You remember Oliver, right?” Hermione asks into the sudden silence. Everyone, including Oliver is looking at Harry expectantly.  
  
It would seem the tenth wheel has arrived.  
  
  


VIII

  
  
It’s Sunday luncheon at the Burrow, and Ginny looks just as put out as Harry feels.  
  
Everyone stares unabashedly at them, doubtless with baited breaths, except for one.  
  
“So!” Mr. Weasley says brightly, seeming completely oblivious to the tension. “Ron tells me he bought a new Muggle gadget—something called a  _digital video disc player_. And that one can watch, er—ah! Movies!—on it, yes?”  
  
Harry nods, shoveling food into his mouth as he talks, despite Hermione’s look of disapproval. “Yes, sir. We’ve already got ten movies for it, if you’d like to come over sometime and—“  
  
“I’d  _love_  to!” Mr. Weasley rubs his hands together gleefully, and Harry smirks at the look on Ron’s and Hermione’s faces as they realize the DVD player is shortly to be toast once Mr. Weasley gets his curious hands on it.  
  
Serves them right for this . . . ambush of a lunch.  
  
Next to him, Ginny nudges his leg under the table. “Spiteful boy,” she murmurs approvingly. Harry laughs quietly, nudging her back.  
  
“Thanks,” he replies, glad that she’s still one of his closest friends.  
  
And despite everything that’s happened between them, despite what Ron and Hermione—and Mrs. Weasley—have planned,  _friends_  is what they’ll always remain.  
  


IX

  
  
“We just don’t want you to be lonely!” Hermione exclaims finally, after the argument has almost descended to the point of name-calling and hair-pulling.  
  
“I’m  _not_  lonely! I’ve got  _you two_!” Harry snarks back. He and Hermione face each other over Ron, who’s sitting on the couch looking miserable, his Manchester United pennant in one hand and the remote control in the other.  
  
The three of them had been watching the football when Hermione had abruptly asked Harry why he was being so stubborn about picking someone,  _anyone_  to see at least casually.  
  
“Harry, I’ve seen the way you look at Ron and I. I know you want the same thing—but you won’t find it unless you put yourself out there!” Hermione sits on the couch looking somewhat defeated when Harry crosses his arms obstinately. “Ron,  _say_  something!”  
  
“Er—“ Ron ventures uncertainly, and Harry and Hermione both roll their eyes. “I think we should all shut it and watch the match-up.”  
  
“What an excellent idea, Ron,” Harry says pointedly, then sits at Ron’s other side. Hermione huffs, bounces to her feet, and stalks off to her bedroom, slamming the door.  
  
Harry and Ron watch the match-up in grim silence.  
  
  


X

  
  
“You know, ‘Mione’s right.”  
  
Harry sighs, taking a swig of his butterbeer, wishing it were fire whisky. “Not you, too, Ron.”  
  
“I’m just sayin’—she’s doin’ her best to make you happy.”  
  
“Whether I want to be happy, or not?”  
  
Now Ron sighs. “So you  _aren’t_  happy?”  
  
“I—“ Harry bites his lip. “I’m . . . content.”  
  
“To be alone?”  
  
“Well, how do you propose The Boy Who Triumphed go about finding someone, eh? Put a personal advert in the  _Quibbler_?”  
  
“Try dating a Muggle,” Ron suggests, grinning. “Problem solved.”  
  
Harry snorts, finishing his butterbeer and standing up. Ron stands with him, as always. “Not hardly.”  
  
“Bloody hell, you won’t date people who know who you are—you won’t date people who  _don’t_ know who you are . . . that doesn’t leave a lot of people to date!”  
  
Harry shrugs, laying a few knuts on the table. “No, it doesn’t.”  
  
They exit the  _Leaky_  and enter Diagon Alley.  
  
“What about if you could find someone who knew, but didn’t  _care_?” Ron asks thoughtfully, hesitantly. “What about— _oi!_ ”  
  
Smiling tightly at the sudden mob of people crowding between him and Ron, demanding autographs, Harry snorts again.  
  
“I won’t hold my breath waiting,” he calls sardonically, taking out his biro.  
  
  


XI

  
  
“Harry . . . Ron and I have something we wish to discuss with you.”  
  
Nodding off on the couch to a rerun of  _Benny Hill_ , Harry is suddenly, instantly alert. His best friends are standing, hand in hand, at the narrow archway separating the livingroom from the hallway. They look far too solemn and anxious.  
  
“You do?” He asks cautiously. Granted, neither Hermione nor Ron has brought up anything about his lack of lover(s) in weeks, but Harry’s still understandably wary.  
  
Steeling himself, he pats the cushion next to him. Sharing a glance, the pair approaches the couch and sits to either side of him.  
  
“We’ve been thinking about your dating problem—“ Hermione begins tentatively.  
  
“Oh, here we go aga— _mmph_!” Harry gasps when Ron turns his face and kisses him hard and long . . . at least till Hermione makes an impatient sound and turns Harry’s face to her own to kiss him softly and briefly.  
  
“Ron and I have talked it over,” she murmurs on Harry’s lips, her dark eyes his entire universe. He shivers when Ron’s arms slide around him possessively.  
  
“And we think we have a solution, mate,” Ron nibbles onto Harry’s neck. Harry exhales through tingling lips.  
  
“I’m l-listening. . . . ”  
  
  


XII

  
  
Long after Ron and Hermione have fallen asleep Harry, sandwiched snugly between them, lays wakeful.  
  
“Bloody hell, mate, you keep thinking that loud and none of us’ll get any sleep, tonight.”  
  
Startled and blushing, Harry looks over at Ron, who’s blinking sleepily, but smiling. Harry tries on a smile of his own with kiss-swollen lips, both surprised and pleased when Ron’s eyes flick to his mouth with hungry consideration.  
  
Finally he reaches out and brushes Harry’s lips with his thumb. “Alright, there, Harry?”  
  
“I . . . guess,” Harry blushes harder at the way he’s shivering, wanting to suck Ron’s thumb into his mouth. “I just—was this pity?”  
  
Now Ron’s the one to look surprised.  
  
“Oh, don’t be ridiculous, Harry,” Hermione yawns, rolling onto her side behind Harry and throwing her arm over both he and Ron. “We don’t pity you, we  _love_  you.”  
  
Harry thinks that over in silence for a few minutes. Minutes in which both Hermione’s and Ron’s hands go wandering to his chest and groin, respectively, working the best magic of all. Soon, Harry’s moaning and squirming, trying to get closer to them both.  
  
“This isn’t a one-off, either,” Ron reassures him as Hermione climbs astride him. Harry gasps at the tight, hot clutch of her body. “I reckon we’ll be keeping you.”  
  
“But—“ Harry starts to say, and is silenced by Ron kissing him quite thoroughly.  
  
“No ‘buts,’ Harry James Potter.” Hermione insists, sounding eerily like Mrs. Weasley. But the comparison is immediately dispelled when she begins rocking back and forth, clenching her muscles around him. He hisses, throwing his head back into the pillow.  
  
“Fuck,  _yeah_ ,” Ron breathes eagerly into Harry’s mouth and Harry, beyond words—as he’s been for most of the amazing evening prior—simply lets Ron explore his mouth at his leisure.  
  
“We’ve always done everything together, don’t you see?” Hermione leans down to whisper in his ear. “It only makes sense that we embark on this particular adventure together. We three bring out the best in each other. Always have—“  
  
“—and always will,” Ron finishes, his lingering kisses wending their way to Harry’s ear as he pulls Harry’s unresisting hand to his cock.  
  
For a long time after that, there’s only the sound of flesh on flesh and flesh  _in_  flesh; Hermione’s soft, breathy sighs and Ron’s gutteral swearing. Harry is almost completely silent, his eyes fluttering open and shut with each new stimulus.  
  
Finally, Hermione rolls them onto their sides, and Ron’s fingers are instantly at Harry’s arse, covered in something cool and slick.  
  
In minutes, he’s buried himself in Harry, who’s sheathed fully in Hermione. They’re all breathing hard, yet all utterly still until Ron’s and Hermione’s hands link together with Harry’s.   
  
“How do we do— _this_?” Harry asks almost fearfully, meaning the sex, the friendship, the relationship—the  _everything_.  
  
Hermione’s dark eyes laugh at him, and Ron’s tongue traces the shell of his ear. “The way we do everything else, berk.”  
  
“Like Gryffindors.” Hermione kisses his nose.  
  
Hands still clasped, as one, they  _move_.  
  



End file.
